


Crime Scene Selfie

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Hot sexy times, M/M, PWP, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 08:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16238321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: Sherlock takes one crime scene selfie too many. Add one a severed foot, a sexually frustrated detective, and a bit of overexposure on Sherlock’s cellphone camera roll and you have a shameless first-time PWP.Written for Sherlock Challenge Tumblr user URL challenge with permission from crimesceneselfie on Tumblr (who has one of the coolest user names ever).





	Crime Scene Selfie

“These are the times that try men’s souls…” John says wearily. It’s wet and rainy and Sherlock knows John hates it. “ The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.”

“Whatever are you muttering, John?”  It’s intentional taunting, and it’s evident it’s working— John wants to hit him. Yet here Sherlock stands daring him, coat billowing, looking all majestic.

“I’m not muttering— I’m reciting. Although it’s what some Brits would call traitorous drivel that a Paine of a person once said,” John looks at Sherlock over his styrofoam cup of cold coffee, “Paine is of the same mind as me at the moment. I can relate to his words and name completely.” 

Sherlock sighs. He makes sure it’s exaggerated so John won’t miss his annoyance.

“I _ am _ sorry!” Sherlock says, then pouts as John stomps off. 

Sherlock follows on John’s heals off the crime scene. He decides he needs to do this. It’s a role reversal for Sherlock to keep up with John, but some sort of supplication is in order. That and Sherlock can’t help but feel his insides turn to hot butter whenever John goes into Captain Watson mode. 

He’s grown to love that feeling over the years.

“I took it down immediately!” Sherlock says. “I do not understand why you are still angry!” 

John stops, clenches his fists, then spins around, which delights Sherlock all the more. “After Anderson and God knows how many other people took a screenshot!” John shouts. “And there are some things that are just plain disrespectful. I told you before, taking selfies at a crime scene fits that category.” 

_ Oh, John! You’re getting angrier. Good _ , Sherlock thinks. John steps into Sherlock’s space.  _ Closer...closer...almost touching my nose, just push John a bit more.  _

_ Ahh, nudge your chest against mine. Fascinating! _

“You know that once it’s on the internet, it’s there forever,” John spits out. 

“Except when it’s not,” Sherlock returns. “It’s a completely false assumption. I made certain and googled it. Look what Leo wrote.”  _ Ah, John, your breath is hot against my neck. Both hearts rate increasing.  _

“Who the hell is Leo?” John steps back, and Sherlock hides his disappointment.

“A tech guru and online expert on such matters. He’s very good. Well educated. At least that’s what is says on his site. Here,” Sherlock thrusts his cell in John’s face. Any excuse to inch closer again. 

John takes the cell out of his hands, something Sherlock doesn’t expect. He shouldn’t be surprised John would immediately jump at the chance to rifle through Sherlock’s iphone. John scrolls down the article using his index finger. Riveting. John licks his lips. Then John looks as though he’s about to swipe his finger across the screen. _ No. _ Sherlock thinks. _ He mustn’t find that! _

But John finger lingers. “See!” John says and finger tapping on a passage in that same article. “ [ The Streisand Effect ](https://askleo.com/the-internet-is-forever-except-when-its-not/) . And it is exactly what’s about to happen to that selfie you thought you deleted. It’s already out there. It’s already duplicated.”

John frowns. It’s attractive. And distracting. He reading, scanning, concentrating on the article. But Sherlock needs his cell back. If John does change screens that would be too much information. 

_ Add a hint of sarcasm,  _ Sherlock thinks, _ look down your nose, then say John’s name like its an exotic sex act. _ “John-n, such little faith! What do you think ‘be sure to back it up means,’ John-n?” 

John stammers but doesn’t hand him back his cell. When Sherlock tries to grab it back, John keeps it in his white-knuckled grip. 

“Oh, go back up your bloody mind palace!” John shouts. Sherlock almost claps, John’s response is so perfect. But he does  _ need  _ to let go!

“That’s not very kind.” He makes sure to stick his lower lip out. John licks his own in response.

“Either is taking a selfie with a severed foot!” John huffs like a long-suffering wife. It’s positively perfect. “Not everything is some game!”

John needs a distraction, then he can slip the cell from his doctor hands. “Is that a new scarf?” Sherlock asks, leering at John’s neck. It’s obviously working. Sherlock sizes John up. 

_ So he doesn’t know about the other one. Yet.  _ Sherlock thinks. _ Best to keep him from finding the camera roll on your cell. That would be not good. _ Sherlock makes his lost puppy face, which always works best to get John to drop things like stirring spoons and forks and towels wrapped around his waist. 

“The foot wasn’t  _ really  _ in my mouth,” Sherlock says. “I was pretending. For the selfie.” 

“Which you shouldn’t have taken! What if the press gets ahold of it?

Sherlock is taken aback. But no. He has absolutely nothing to worry about. He deleted it. “Do you think Lestrade would have to take us off cases?” That  _ would _ be not good. If there was a photo. But there’s not. At least not one of him with a foot in his mouth...

“Oh! Now he gets it! Yes, you bloody big-brained imbecile!” Sherlock sees Johns finger. He’s out of the browser and going for the icons on the screen. 

“Well, you’re a...a...oxymoron.” He knows he’s taunting John. It works. John’s finger stops. He looks up and squints at him. Sherlock can’t get over how appealing John is when he’s flustered.

“I swear sometimes you act five years old.”   
  
“Is there a reason you picked that particular age because I think ten would be more cognitively accurate regarding self awareness and social media.”

Sherlock’s particularly excited since John reopens the browser to the same page on Sherlock’s cell and reads more off Leo’s site. “Here look at this you  _ oxymoron _ ,” John reads. “‘Anything you post publicly can be copied.’  _ And it has _ . Anderson and now Donovan and within minutes I’d say half of Scotland Yard. Oh, wait...you may be safe after all. It says here that for people to copy posts, people actually have to  _ follow _ you and read it. I guess there’s no problem then.”

Now John is just getting nasty, but is still clueless. Sherlock concedes that John still hasn’t caught on there’s something else on it as he puts Sherlock’s cell into his jacket.

“You do have me thinking…as should you,” Sherlock concedes.

“Here take your cell back before I do something even more inappropriate with it like shove it up that posh arse.” He reaches into his jacket, then hesitates.

“John! That would be very painful.”

“It’d probably fit.” Sherlock realizes his mistake. He’s too anxious to get it back. “What else is on this?” John asks. 

Lestrade is marching up to them. Sherlock hasn’t much time. Sherlock winces, ignoring John’s question. Which makes John suspect Sherlock more. 

John slips the cell back into his jacket. “I think I’ll hang on to it so you won’t do anything else stupid.”

Sherlock hears Lestrade yelling back at Donovan, and it’s about a selfie. He sighs with relief as he realizes it’s not _ his _ selfie Lestrade is ranting about. It’s the perfect distraction.

“You might want to ask me about  _ the selfie _ ,” Sherlock states. He makes sure he says it in a deep, dark sing-song voice. “Lestrade saw our suspect’s Twitter account. Guess who _ didn’t  _ delete his selfies?”

“Our murderer,” John says, eyes sparking.

“It’s a friends-with-benefits selfy.” Sherlock bounces on his heels. “Very incriminating.”

“How do you even know what friends-with-benefits means?” John asks. 

“I’m on social media. I have knowledge of idiomatic slang phrases. The knowledge does clutter the brain a bit, but It’s a necessary evil one must know to navigate Twitter.” 

“What’s wrong with you?” John asks him. 

Lestrade is walking up to them and calls out to John. “I need a doctor’s eye. Could you come over and look at the victim?” John hesitates, then follows Lestrade over to the crime scene. At least Lestrade will keep John busy. 

But not busy enough.

“ _ Sherlock _ !” 

Sherlock raises his head to see Captain John Watson marching up to him. His face bright red and his back ridgid. “What is the meaning of this!” He shoves Sherlock’s cell into his face, and smashes Sherlock’s nose against the screen. 

John opened the photo library. Not good.

“I can explain,” Sherlock says back.

“How?! There is no way to explain this video in your camera roll!” John has him by the coat and is dragging him away from officers milling around the crime scene. John lowers his voice. It’s deadly. Sherlock loves the shivers it sends through him. Even the hairs on his head are...um...erect. 

He uses the most plausible lie he can think of…”It’s for an experiment.”

“Experiment?! No. There’s no experiment where...when did you even??? No, don’t tell me! I don’t want to know!” 

“You really should be proud,” Sherlock says, gently taking his cell from John’s hands. “It’s impressive.” His face grows hot after saying it. 

John becomes quiet. Too quiet. He’s thinking. And staring into the London night sky and biting his lips. There are times he can read John as easily as a Margaret Wise Brown’s  _ Goodnight Moon _ , and others when John is as challenging as James Joyce’s  _ Ulysses _ . Then there are the times when he’s afraid to read him at all. Sherlock is so afraid, he can’t keep his hands from shaking. John notices it when Sherlock reaches to take the cell back. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see John’s face— the expression as John realizes Sherlock’s deepest desires. Taking the photo was easy. John was distracted. He heard John’s moans in the shower—  _ he shouldn’t sneak in, shouldn’t watch, shouldn’t capture John’s hands pleasuring himself. He couldn’t stop himself.  _

John will understand. He understands that Sherlock shouldn’t do a lot of things he does. He opens his eyes to John staring at him. He’s not looking away. In fact, he’s studying him like he’s one of Sherlock’s own experiments.

“It’s over a year, and I still can’t keep from thinking how you said you were married to your work,” John says finally.

“I was.”

_ “Was. _ ”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but instead, John grabs him by his coat lapels and drags him into the alley. He doesn’t stop until both are recessed deep in the shadows of on old shop doorway. 

“John?” Sherlock blinks as John pushes him against the little-used door, his hip brushing against Sherlock’s crotch.

John’s voice is rich and deep. “You weren’t interested before, but I see you are now.”

Sherlock swallows. It’s all he can do. 

“Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop,” John says.

He wants it. He wants is so much. His answer is to thrust his hips forward and groan.

Sherlock also sees the way John’s eyeing him. For the last months Sherlock’s seen a bit of hero-worshipping in them. Not now. This look is a John in control. A John who _ is _ the hero. John thrusts right back, his eyelids to half-closed but still sparkling with mischief beneath. 

He doesn’t need to guess where John’s hands are because they’ve purposefully slipped into his coat and now grasp Sherlock’s hips. He’s sure John’s fingers will leave imprints. John licks his lips, and Sherlock follows the bewitching track of his tongue with his eyes. 

As the space between their faces grows smaller, Sherlock whiffs the pulse point on John’s neck. He can practically feel it pounding. Sherlock’s still unsure, but John makes this strangled sound deep in his throat as Sherlock’s mouth moves over that point. He only hovers there for an instant, then his tongue gives a quick flick. John presses in harder, turning Sherlock’s knees to liquid. If John wasn’t holding him up against the door, he’d fold to the ground.  

John catches his breath. “Cab?” John suggests. 

Sherlock hates to stop, but he needs more and that can’t happen in a doorway where anyone could see. Sherlock moans against John’s neck. He can’t believe how good John tastes. He’s  overwhelmed but wants more. He must have it. He can have it. All.

“Yes. Cab.”

Sherlock sees it’s painful for John to pull away, but he does. He gives Sherlock a devilish grin, and Sherlock follows him. John wants him. 

Sherlock uses all his artful skills to call a cab. He feels like skipping, he’s so excited. Inside the cab the remaining barriers crumble between them. It’s John who breaks them down. His hand eases onto Sherlock’s knee. It’s not a slip. His fingertips sear into him like there’s nothing between them. Sherlock wants to lean over, wants to kiss him so much. But the driver is watching in the mirror, and John’s a private person. They’ll have plenty of privacy soon. His fingers inch up his thigh. The caress is tender, light. He becomes a writhing mess on the seat of a Black cab.  

After many gasps and moans from the back seat, the driver stops. They’re home. Sherlock throws the money at the driver. He always does that and it bothers John, but John doesn’t seem too concerned all about that at the moment. Instead John literally drags Sherlock to the steps. 

John opens the door so deftly, Sherlock can’t imagine how he did it. There’s some kind of magic in those fingertips. 

John slams the door and pushes Sherlock against it. Another door. This time punctuated by John’s lips.  _ And kiss _ . It’s what Sherlock thought it would be and more. It presses and pulls and possesses Sherlock’s soul. His mouth opens in welcome. 

"John-n," Sherlock shudders, his voice goes deep and raw with arousal. 

"Sherlock," he moans back against his mouth. His hands are on Sherlock’s thighs, dragging up with slow, sure pressure… up, up. Sherlock gasps as his erection pulses beneath the palm of John’s hand.

"Please," Sherlock begs.

"Up the stairs," John returns. “Then you can tell me what you want.” His words burn into him. He can’t move at first, but John pulls him away from the door and up the stairs.

He wants to tell John now. Tell him that he wants to be fucked. Wants John to take him and make him into a writhing mess. He’s wanted it since almost that first night but didn’t know how to ask. He still is not sure he can.

At the top of the stairs, John lifts his head. On the step below, Sherlock stands. They’re even. But it’s not just the stairs. It’s all that John is. He’s his equal. His compliment. His purpose for being. He kisses Sherlock again. This time chaste but with promises of more to come. He hesitates, then turns to open the door.

He toes off his shoes. Leaves them near the door. His stocking feet slip on the floor as John pulls Sherlock along with ease. It’s like a dream. They’re in Sherlock’s room. On his bed. John cups his hand over the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. He rubs him slowly through the delicate fabric. It’s like an entire orchestra is playing. 

Sherlock thinks he’ll come right there. "Oh …God, stop!”

Of course John does. He sits up like a bolt.

“I didn’t mean...,” Sherlock blurts out. “Not...it’s...I’m about to…”

Sherlock’s afraid he’s going to leave. John does not. Instead, he does what John always does. Exactly what Sherlock doesn’t expect. 

He straddles Sherlock, one knee on either side of his hips, straddling his crotch. But he doesn’t sit back. 

"Sherlock. I want to make sure. Is this what you want?” He’s poised in the air, just above Sherlock. Hovering, waiting. “You need to say it.”

“Yes. I want you. I want us. All of this.”

John wets his lips and sits back on Sherlock’s thighs. His hands spread wide, mapping out the lines of Sherlock’s waist and chest. “We need to get these off then.”

From there, it’s a dance. John ducks his head and with exquisite control his fingers release each button, kisses each new bit of flesh, slips off Sherlock’s trousers and palms the length of Sherlock’s body with time and phrasing. He reaches Sherlock’s mouth, devouring him, thumbing the stubble-rough skin at its corners. His fingers play out over Sherlock’s belt buckle, open his fly. When John breaks the kiss, they're both panting for breath. John hoists his own hips up.

Sherlock realizes that during this time, John has managed to remove his own shirt and is just finished kicking off his trousers. 

He wants to tell John to fuck him. He wants to say it, but his mouth seems to have lost all ability to speak. 

John is beautiful. 

Muscles tense and rippling, his freckles merge with his tan chest. Sandy coarse hairs stand at attention in excitement. He wants to touch John. He doesn’t need to speak to do that.

Sherlock’s hands that were at his sides, come to life and talk for him. He runs his long fingers wordlessly up John’s chest. Their cocks bump. John’s trapped inside his briefs, Sherlock’s cock is free and bobbing excitedly near. Sherlock wants to pull John down and kiss the scar on his shoulder. It makes him think about the first time he wanted to do that and all the times after. He thinks of how this all started. Even before the video of he took of John wanking, Sherlock took innocent pictures of John that he’d look at while he pleasured himself.

But the video, he watched it over and over. John in the shower. He wanted his hands on John’s cock. He’s thought of it so, so many times. That’s why he’s never deleted anything of John’s. He’d imagined it was his hands working John’s cock in this very bed. 

So he reaches. He touches. He pushes John’s pants down and grasps him. John bucks in his hand like he imagined he would. He’s real. John is here on his sheets.

He’s a bit disappointed when John rolls off, and he has to let go of his prize. He feels like cursing. His breath catches. But John is full of surprises. John slithers along side him, smile on his lips. His bare feet wrap around Sherlock’s still stocking clad feet, making his unnaturally long toes curl. His legs and arms pull Sherlock over on his side, facing John. 

Sherlock’s hand reaches again, this time with confidence. He grips John firmly. His thumb rolls  the slick between John’s foreskin and the head of his cock. John lets loose a rumble deep in his chest. 

Sherlock still can’t say it. There’s so many things he can’t say that he needs to say to John. Then he remembers. His right hand reaches beneath his pillow. He hands John the bottle of lube he keeps there. He’s needed it more than ever recently. 

John grins as he takes the bottle. “Are you sure?” he asks Sherlock.

Sherlock nods as John flips the lid and pours some out and works it onto his fingers. Doctor’s hands, doctor’s fingers. John licks his lips and rolls Sherlock onto his back and settles himself between Sherlock’s long thighs. 

A cool wet swipe of a finger slips along the crease of Sherlock’s arse. John’s fingertip teases Sherlock’s hole, testing.  _ It’s like an experiment _ , Sherlock thinks.  _ How far can John go to get me to plead, to beg, to say what I couldn’t say before this _ ?

There’s no describing for Sherlock how good at this John is. John pushes his finger inside, deeper, his knuckle in, then crooks it. 

“John! There!”

“I thought you’d appreciate that.”

“God, yes! More!”

John toys with him. Sherlock tight ring grips around John’s finger as he slides in and out and around. 

"You’re so tight," John says. "I can’t wait to get my cock inside."

John’s performs magic as Sherlock finds the words. “ _ Fuck me _ .”

John does as he's told. He pulls his finger out of Sherlock’s arse, then pushes Sherlock’s legs apart with his body. Sherlock’s tendons stretch.  

John flips the top of the lube again and pours more into his hand, he’s about to slick his cock with it when Sherlock’s own hands slide into John’s. Four hands work John’s cock. Sherlock loves seeing how John’s coming undone.

Sherlock lifts his knees higher and helps John line his cock up to his pucker. He shivers as the tip of John’s dick brushes over it.

John pushes inside, slow and steady. Sherlock’s head flops back. He bites back his first  moan of pleasure but can suppress the rest as John bottoms out. 

It burns. Then John moves. It’s like lava is in Sherlock’s veins. Fiery, molten lust rocks into him as John does.

_ He’s an artist _ , Sherlock thinks. John’s hips circle, and he destroys all Sherlock’s self control with in and out, up and down and ‘round and ‘round.

Sherlock tries his best to follow John’s lead. Finally he gives up and lets John take him over. Sherlock thighs tremble in time with John’s strokes. His cock is so hard; he knows he’s almost ready to come. His arse is squeezing John’s cock.

“You’re beautiful,” John gasps. His hand slips between them and pulls on Sherlock’s aching dick.

That and the fire and friction in his arse is enough.  _ Good. So good _ , Sherlock thinks and blinks the sweat out of his eyes. 

One more push, then two. He looks up at John and comes. 

His orgasm takes John over the edge. John’s arms give, and he falls forward, nose first into the curl of Sherlock’s neck.

Both gasp and hold each other. After breathing and heart rate return to almost normal, John raises himself up on one arm and looks down into Sherlock’s face. What Sherlock sees, he’ll never forget. John’s eyes are soft, his mouth softer. Sherlock sees the words in John’s eyes that neither of them could ever say. 

“I can’t believe it took this long for us to get our heads out of our arses,” John finally says, smiling. His finger brushes a curl off Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock smiles back. 

“Just how many times did you watch me wanking off in the shower before the video?” John asks.

Sherlock blushes. “A few. But I didn’t see much. The glass in the door obscured the view.”

John blushes back. “You listened before. And then...”  

“You’d left the door ajar. I couldn’t stop myself. I had to record it to know for sure.”

“What I said.”

“My name,” Sherlock says.

“Yes,” John smiles. He’s not angry. “So, was my getting your cell part of your grand plan?”

“Actually, no, but it looks like it was a fortunate accident.” Sherlock recalls what seemed to be John’s disapproval earlier that evening and begins to rethink it all. “I’m still not sorry.”

“I’m glad you’re not. At least about this.”

“Ours is always a beautiful game, John.”   
  



End file.
